


Twin Skeletons

by MogmaMittens



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Heavy Angst, M/M, Oh wait, Soul Bond, i honestly dont know how else to tag this. it's sad, major spoilers also lmfao, sex is brief and vague but it is There
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 09:38:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12166323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MogmaMittens/pseuds/MogmaMittens
Summary: Ignis cries. Noctis isn’t sure he would have, were there not a soul that isn't his weighing heavily in his chest.





	Twin Skeletons

Noctis is seven when Ignis dies.

 

He knows about the concept of death, certainly - his mother, and then later his favorite nursemaid, fell to the same fate. Still, holding his father’s hand while he approaches the casket isn’t easy. He can tell his dad’s having a hard time with it, too, by the way he’s crushing his fingers and his breathing comes shaky, but Noctis is… Noctis is okay.

 

By all means, he shouldn’t be. His best friend in the whole world is lying in a coffin in front of him, but he’s calm. Perfectly so. Knows what to do, rather.

 

“Can I…” Noctis reaches out and brushes his fingers against the cold surface of the casket. It’s black and shiny, with matching velvet on the insides. He doesn’t understand why everything needs to be black here, especially since it makes Ignis look so pale and so  _ sad,  _ even though he knows, logically, that there’s no way Ignis is upset right now. Regis looks down at him, and if Noctis isn’t mistaken there are tears in his eyes, and then nods.

 

“Take all the time you need, son.”

 

And that he does.

 

He’s almost tall enough to reach the opening without scaling the side of it, but Noctis has always been smaller than most so even at his  _ mature _ age of seven and a half he can’t reach Ignis’ face. He can see it just fine, sure, but that’s not really what he was going for, here. A leg up, then an arm, and by then people are noticing, gasping and chattering amongst themselves. Regis chokes behind him and he hears a hushed,  _ “Noctis!”  _ before he’s straddling the coffin.

 

Softly, but quickly, because his father is coming, he leans down and kisses Ignis. Once on the forehead, for good measure and because the voice in the back of his head is telling him that he  _ has  _ to, and then on the lips. The voice whispering in his mind - which would’ve been concerning, were Noctis older and less concerned with other, more pressing matters - is soft and feminine, but strong enough to urge him forward. Tells him that he needs to breathe the life back into him, so he does. He empties his lungs as good and well as he can (which isn’t much, Noctis isn’t the healthiest child) and Ignis takes it easily before his father is in front of him, ready to pull him away.

 

Maybe it’s the feeling of half his soul being ripped from his chest, or maybe it’s the way Ignis doesn’t stir when Regis puts both hands on either side of Noctis' slim body and drags him off, but he’s crying, now. Messy and loud, sobs through clenched teeth and Noctis' tiny hands trying to pry Regis’ off.

 

“Let me save him!  _ Let me save him!!”  _ It’s not fair. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair. He’s kicking harder than he knew he could and Regis is  _ definitely  _ crying now, choked sobs into the top of his hair that just make him  _ angrier.  _ If he just lets him go, lets him finish what he was trying to  _ do,  _ then Ignis would be  _ okay  _ and he wouldn’t be  _ hurting  _ and maybe his chest wouldn’t feel like there was a dagger carving out its insides.

 

They’re both sobbing by the time the room goes silent, all the nobility having frozen and twisted in the direction of the casket. Noctis opens his eyes, slowly, because he’s in so much pain he can’t do anything without it being absolutely deliberate, and smiles.

 

It isn’t every day you see a dead boy sitting up. What’s more, is even in the rare circumstance of a dead boy suddenly regaining consciousness, rarely will he climb out of his casket like it’s nothing - like the nine years afforded to him didn’t make him more wary of waking up in the center of a funeral arrangement - and stumbling up to his prince on fawn’s legs.

 

His hands are clammy on Noctis' shoulders when he pulls him from Regis, who is too busy looking slack-jawed at whatever risen-from-the-dead creature that’s in front of him to stop it. His heart doesn’t hurt anymore, though, not when he’s this close to Ignis and his head is on his chest. Ignis’ skin is like ice, even through the thick fabric of his tuxedo and the thinner, but still decent, fabric of Noctis' suit, and Noctis manages a quiet, “are you cold?” before Ignis starts laughing into his hair.

 

“Warmer already.”

 

* * *

 

Noctis is seventeen when he tells Ignis. By all means, Ignis knew something was  _ up -  _ he realized, years later, that one does not simply come back to life, especially not days after death had already been well established - but no one ever brought it up and Noctis wasn’t particularly willing to tell the person deemed his protector that he’d died and Noctis gave up a decent chunk of his soul just to bring him back.

 

It’s a choked out confession, and Noctis has to say it twice before it registers.  _ I saved your life. I gave up part of my soul to save yours.  _ His nails wear into the palms of his hands and he’s shaking by the time he’s done explaining, telling him that something warm, something that felt like  _ light  _ told him to breathe life back into him.

 

Ignis cries. Noctis isn’t sure he would have, were there not a soul that isn’t his weighing heavily in his chest. He cries and he cradles his face in his palms, and when he kisses him it’s slow, and sweet, and nothing like anything he’s ever experienced before. 

 

Noctis decides he likes kissing, as long as it’s Ignis, because Ignis makes his heart feel warm and his chest feel full, which is something he’d been missing for a very, very long time. They’re in his apartment so he’s not bothered by the possibility of any onlookers when he’s pressed down into his couch, and despite his usual distaste towards touching it feels  _ good  _ when Ignis runs his hands, hot as a cattle brand, up his sides.

 

They sleep together. Noctis wakes up the next morning with arms around his waist (and he’s reminded of the way Regis held him when Ignis wouldn’t get up, when he wasn’t  _ moving _ , and then the way Ignis held him not long after) and warm breath against the nape of his neck. He waits for Ignis to wake up and scramble back, to tell him that it’s not appropriate and that they could get  _ in trouble  _ and that he didn’t want to wake up with his head on a pike, but he doesn’t. Maybe, Noctis thinks, it’s because Ignis wanted this just as bad as he did. Maybe he, too, felt like  _ one  _ and not  _ two  _ when they were this close. 

 

He lets Ignis fold him in half with light streaming through his window, and it’s softer - more  _ reverent,  _ he realizes, when Ignis whispers that he loves him into the back of his knee - than he ever thought this would go. He would, at the promise of his secret not being spread throughout the barracks akin to cheap pornography, admit to thinking about this more than a few times. Ignis did have a part of his soul, after all, and if he wasn’t sure about Ignis being his soulmate when they were children (but he was, because children just  _ know  _ these kinds of things), it’s just plain obvious now. 

 

It’s not _making love_ when they have sex. Noctis is sure of that, because making love only happens in five gil romance novels he’s seen at the convenience store and in movies he wouldn’t even look at once if he’s had less than three glasses of wine at dinner. It’s not fucking, either, because he’s not going to walk out of this with bruises on his thighs and Ignis is looking at him less like a nice steak dinner and more like… Noctis doesn’t know _how_ he’s looking at him, actually, just that it makes him feel fuzzy inside. 

 

Ignis leans down as efficiently as he can in their precarious position and kisses him; tells him to stop thinking so hard, which Noctis thinks is pretty damn ironic considering all the routes and avenues Ignis goes through to get to any type of conclusion. 

 

“That’s rich, comin’ from you,” he slurs, because his brain short-circuited the second Ignis was inside of him, and he laughs in reply. 

 

Noctis comes first - he’s a little too excited, probably, and Ignis has two years of self control on him so who can  _ blame him -  _ and he cries Ignis’ name when he does, rutting into him so hard that it hurts. Ignis follows not long after with a long, deep kiss and a murmur of something that sounds like “Noct” against his mouth.

 

He catches his breath with Ignis still shivering on top of him, and realizes it’s the first time he’s heard a name other than “highness” out of his mouth in years.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Noctis is twenty when they tell him he’s marrying Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, lifelong friend -  _ and that’s it.  _

 

He knew it was coming. Political marriage was not only necessary but inevitable. That doesn’t stop the bone deep ache that follows him once the engagement is final and Ignis stops sleeping in his bed, and it certainly doesn’t stop once they’re on the road and he jumps through hoops to keep them from being in close quarters longer than a minute.

 

Logically, he knows it’s mostly psychological. Knows his brain is making his body ache because he loves Ignis, and he misses him, but the way his skin chills and he feels physically ill can’t be a coincidence. He finds himself blanket-stealing more than once, and still wakes up shivering. 

 

Ignis has to know. Gladio’s asked more than once if Noctis feels alright, if he’s got cold feet, and Noctis laughs (forced and Ignis  _ knows,  _ considering the way he can see him wince in the driver’s side mirror) and tells him he’s fine. He’s just kinda sick, he’s not used to being in this kind of environment and he’s got allergies. Gladio accepts it with a shrug and goes back to his book, but Noctis knows that Ignis knows and Noctis  _ also  _ knows that Ignis has been popping antihistamines and anti-inflammatories ever since he’s gotten engaged.

 

He takes a long pull from a bottle of water and stares at Ignis’ reflection.

 

By all means, he can’t hold out  _ forever. _

 

* * *

 

Noctis is thirty the next - and last - time Ignis tells him he loves him.

 

He doesn’t even  _ feel  _ thirty, and wouldn’t believe that he was if he hadn’t seen his reflection in Talcott’s car. Alien is the best word to describe his face, his body, his hair… he’s not  _ Noctis  _ anymore, and he’s starting to question the last time he  _ was. _ When he walks his joints creak like he’s fifty years older than the age he’s really, really not; his stomach has sunken in so deeply that he can count every rib and, if pressed, could probably get the entirety of his waist between two of his hands.

 

Everything hurts, and a nap would be wonderful. He’s still cold - hasn’t stopped being cold in  _ years _ and at this point the chill has settled so deeply he’s not sure it’ll ever  _ leave.  _ Still, he stumbles out of the truck without falling on his face, and that’s enough of an achievement that Noctis feels satisfied.

 

Ignis doesn’t waste any time. Carefully, he gathers Noctis up into his arms, tells him he needs to shave that dreadful beard, and tucks his still-bespectacled face neatly into his shoulder. He says he’s been hurting for years - that it felt like a part of him died, and it’s worse than anything he’d ever want Noctis to be subjected to. Tells him he’s sorry, and that he misses him, and Noctis doesn’t stop hurting this time because he knows he’s just going to tear himself away from Ignis again.

 

He has to.

 

It’s just fate.

 

“Love you,” Noctis says, after everyone’s fallen asleep in a bunker they found beneath the streets of Insomnia. Ignis smiles so bright Noctis isn’t surprised  _ that  _ isn’t what’s supposed to light up the sun, but he and the Astrals have different ideas about Eos’ laws of nature, probably. Either way, he kisses him, and some of the hurt wound tight in his heart finally fades. Ignis feels it too, he thinks, because his shoulders relax some and his smile comes easier. 

 

If he thinks on it hard enough he can pretend that, with Ignis’ arms wrapped around him like this, and his lips on the back of his neck, that they’re back home. Soon, Noctis will whine at Ignis to stay in bed because he’s going to want to get up and cook breakfast, and he’ll be damned if he lets Noctis lure him into lazing around in bed until eleven again, so he’ll kiss him until Noctis is distracted enough to let him get away.

 

But they’re not at home, and Noctis is dying tomorrow, and Ignis  _ doesn’t know,  _ so he turns over in his bunk that’s undoubtedly too small for two people, let alone two adult men, and kisses him until they’re both breathless.

 

Only hours later, Ignis pulls him aside in the Citadel’s courtyard with shaky hands and sweaty palms.

 

“We’re home,” he says, and the relief in his voice is heartbreaking. “It’s been years…”

 

“Yeah.” Noctis sighs, shakily, and leans in until his forehead is against Ignis’ collarbone. “Yeah, we are.”

 

Ignis is careful not to tug when he cards through Noctis' too-long hair, and doesn’t speak for a long while - the silence between them is comfortable, if tentative, broken only by Gladio and Prompto talking in hushed tones a few feet back.

 

“I felt it,” Ignis murmurs into his hair, “when you woke up, and again when you’d arrived at Hammerhead.” He thinks he can hear Ignis swallow. “Even now, it’s… almost too much to bear. It’s been years.” His voice breaks, just a little, and listening closer, Noctis realizes it’s trembling. “It feels  _ wonderful.”  _

 

“I miss you.” Noctis forces down tears, and pulls back to look Ignis in the eyes, even if he can’t see him. Ignis laughs under his breath and reaches up to Noctis' face, dragging his thumb over the high point of his cheek. 

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

There’s ice in his veins when Ignis kisses him, so slow and sweet that Noctis can’t help but notice the guilt crawling up his spine. He can’t tell him.  _ He can’t tell him.  _ Ignis would try to stop him, he  _ knows  _ he would, so he steels himself and, once the kiss is over, flattens his hand against Ignis’ chest.

 

“I’m ready.”

 

* * *

_ “Hey Ignis, you can sense light, right?” _

 

_ “To a degree, yes.” _

 

_ “So when dawn breaks, you’ll know?” _

 

_ “Yes.” _

 

_ “Just making sure.” _

 

* * *

__

Ignis is thirty-two years old when he loses the love of his life.

 

He feels it when it happens, drops to the ground while the daemons disappear and clutches his chest in both hands. This hurts worse than when Noctis left the first time, certainly, because that was just  _ sleeping  _ but this is… this is death. This is what death feels like, cold and icy, like a dagger in his back.

 

It’s not nearly as comforting as he’d remembered. Perhaps it’s because  _ he’s  _ not the one dying.

 

He drags himself up the stairs, half-limping, supported by Prompto. Gladio’s looking for wounds that don’t exist, and both are desperately confused, but they go along with Ignis on his journey inside.

 

It’s uncomfortably silent after the door closes. He hears footsteps, and smells blood - once he gets closer he can hear it dripping, gradually, like the lot of it has already been drained.

 

Immediately, he knows why Noctis hadn’t told him. Ignis knows himself well enough to know he would’ve whisked Noctis somewhere far away to keep him safe, because a world without Noctis isn’t a world worth living in, sunlight be damned. He’d fight daemons for the rest of his days if he could hold Noctis close while he slept, and Noctis had to have known that much.

 

He slips on his way up the stairs and gags on the realization that he’s stumbling his way through Noctis' blood, and now it’s on his hands and in his clothes and it’s  _ too much.  _

 

_ A world without Noctis isn’t a world worth living in. _

 

There’s a touch, soft, on the small of his back and Ignis almost growls at Prompto to  _ let him do this alone  _ when he realizes, suddenly, that there’s no one there. Whatever it is traces its fingers up his back and through his chest (which is  _ desperately  _ unnerving) to his heart.

 

His heart, that’d gone bad when he was eight, and gave out when he was nine.

 

His heart, that belonged to Noctis in every meaning of the word.

 

His  _ heart,  _ that he’d willingly tear out for the sake of love.

 

_ Save him,  _ whatever it is whispers, and he scrambles up the rest of the way until he’s kneeling before the throne, blood soaking into the front of his pants and dragging over Noctis’ skin when he starts feeling for his face. There’s a sword in the way, the flat of it pressing against his shoulder, and Ignis slides it out slow and listens to the clang when it falls to stone.

 

Carefully, and because he’s told to, he kisses Noctis’ forehead for good measure, and then his lips. No one comes to stop him, but he hears Gladio’s choked-off gasp and Prompto’s questioning one from somewhere behind him.

 

_ Breathe life into him,  _ it whispers, and Ignis does, taking in as much air as he possibly can and emptying it into Noctis' lungs. It’s taken easily, like he’s been waiting for it, and it eases Ignis’ nerves. It reassures him that he’s doing the right thing.

 

He doesn’t do it because Lucis needs a leader. They could transition smoothly into a democracy without much struggle by now, and Noctis never wanted the responsibility expected of royalty anyway. It’s not to put pressures on him he doesn’t need. Rather, it’s because he knows - and despite his wealth of knowledge, he’s  _ absolutely certain  _ of very few things - that Noctis would do better without him than he without Noctis.

 

And that’s just about enough reasoning for anybody.

 

Noctis had told him once that when he first brought Ignis back, that it felt like something being torn from his chest. It… doesn’t feel like that now, he doesn’t think. A bit uncomfortable, perhaps, but nothing like his insides being carved out. There’s a relief to it, almost, perhaps because his body has lasted so long past its original expiration date and it was finally getting a  _ rest _ , or perhaps because this soul was never his to have in the first place. It would be terrifying to die, he thinks, had he not done it once already. He hoped Noctis didn’t suffer too much.

 

Ignis was never meant to feel the sun on his skin. He’s made his peace with it.

 

His lungs slow and he slumps against Noctis' body, the blood in his ears drawing to a pause.

 

_ I’m sorry,  _ he thinks, too weak to talk properly.  _ I’ve left you alone. _

 

_ I love you. _

 

Above him, Noctis' heart abruptly starts, and by the Six, it sounds painfully like absolution.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic says noctis 69 times and i think that's fucking hilarious
> 
> twitter: [x](http://twitter.com/lgn1s)


End file.
